


Three Sherlock Ficlets

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Titles:</b> What You Take for Granted / War Paint / Cover to Cover</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Sherlock Ficlets

**Author's Note:**

> First written and posted to LJ in August 2011.

 

**What You Take for Granted**

 

“Unbelievable,” John said, hunching down in his seat. “Even for _you_.”

“What?” asked Sherlock, all innocence. “We need transport. It's convenient.”

“It's a bloody Duck Boat, Sherlock. We're not tourists. I'm altogether too familiar with how the Thames smells, and you already know every square inch of this city better than the backs of your hands—no, wait a minute, never mind. You literally _do_ , as the backs of your hands qualify as less interesting than what's under the microscope.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and then said, lowering his voice, “But every square inch of the backs of _your_ hands, come to think of it—”

“Oh God,” John muttered. “Not in public.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I thought it might—what's that imbecilic turn of phrase again?—spice things up.”

“You sound as if you've been reading the latest issues of _OK!_ and _Heat_.”

“I have,” Sherlock said. “For a case, you understand. Insufferable, what the media assumes the modern British woman must find appealing. Unless, of course, they're correct, in which case the lot get exactly what they deserve. Did you know Jordan's on the rocks with her latest beau? Also, my horoscope was spot on.”

John covered his face with both hands.

“This isn't happening. _Really_ isn't happening.”

“Empirical evidence would suggest that it is,” Sherlock said as the Duck Boat rumbled to life, bearing them down the slope as the guide's voice crackled over the intercom.

John rolled his eyes and let Sherlock take hold of his hand.

“I've very little choice.”

Sherlock drew it up to his mouth and kissed John's knuckles.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Or, if you prefer, think of England.”

“ _Sherlock_ —”

“Right, how silly of me. The _ride_ will suffice.”

John crossed his legs, wondering how on earth he'd make it through the next hour.

 

 

**War Paint**

 

Sherlock peeled out of his coat and dropped it in the middle of the living room.

John almost lost his balance and fell across the threshold, busy working off his filthy shoes.

“Oh, no, you don't,” he said. “Pick that up and put it down in the hall.”

“You haven't left yours,” said Sherlock, peevishly, staring at the mud-caked garment as if it had committed the gravest of betrayals. “And your shoes—”

“Are staying just outside,” John said, stepping forward in his stocking feet, letting the door slam behind him. Mrs. Hudson shouted something from downstairs, probably about the ill effects of slamming the doors of rented property, but he ignored her and forged on. “Besides, my coat isn't absolutely _covered_. It's just got a few splotches here and there.” He removed it and pointed them out. Miniscule, every single one.

Sherlock's manner turned from peevish to downright _pissy_.

“We can't all be as perfect as you are, can we? Imagine that: the consummate flatmate, doctor, and soldier. Is there anything he _can't_ do, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen?” Sherlock asked his audience, which consisted of the skull.

“Hey,” John said, stepping up behind him. “You're one of those things at _least_.”

Sherlock rounded on him, sneering, pale eyes ablaze.

“Which, if you'd be so good as to share? None of the above? I think you'll find that you neglected to present that option the first time around.”

John had hit a nerve, apparently.

He licked his thumb and extended his hand towards Sherlock's face. Sherlock flinched, turning his head sharply to one side, which gave John a clear swipe at the impressive splash of mud adorning his left cheekbone. Sherlock made a disgruntled sound, but he let John rub at the spot until it was clean, the skin left faintly pink.

“You don't look half bad in war paint,” John said, grinning as he worked.

Sherlock turned his head so he was facing John once more, bewildered. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for about three seconds, during which time he bent gracefully and lifted his coat. He balled it up and tossed it into the empty fireplace, wrinkling his nose, and then folded his arms across his mud-flecked chest. That he could look so dignified in such a disheveled state was downright _arousing_.

“You're not angry with me, then?” Sherlock asked, tentatively licking his own thumb.

“Not anymore,” said John, and presented his chin for inspection.

 

 

**Cover to Cover**

 

“Ludicrous,” said Sherlock, shutting the catalogue. “Mycroft can get it for less.”

“Mycroft isn't _here_ ,” John reminded him. “It's only five hundred quid.”

“Until my current client pays up, the phrase _only five hundred quid_ ought not to be in our vocabulary. It's a book, and it's for your sister. We're not paying—”

“Let's review where the main bulk of your last fee went, shall we?”

“Let's not. It has no bearing on the present situation.”

“You spent _five thousand pounds_ on a watch. Without telling me. Which you then proceeded to blow up downstairs in the back garden. Without telling Mrs. Hudson.”

“It was a very well-made watch,” Sherlock said. “Just like the one belonging to Farringdon. A cheap substitute wouldn't have done the trick, and if not for the noble sacrifice of Mrs. Hudson's begonias, a deranged killer with a flair for compact explosives would still be on the loose.”

“Fair point,” John said, waving the catalogue in Sherlock's face. “Do you fancy Harry exploding on _us_ when all she gets for her fortieth birthday is a copy of _Reader's Digest_ and a packet of Jammie Dodgers?”

“Your sister _loves_ Jammie Dodgers,” said Sherlock, accusingly.

“She also loves Seamus Heaney, and she's always wanted a signed copy of _North_.”

Sherlock made a face and squinted at the cover image.

“The man's far past his prime. You've heard her gripe about _Human Chain_.”

“And _Electric Light_ , and everything in between. What'll it take to convince you?”

“I'm going to stand my ground,” Sherlock insisted.

“Like hell you are,” said John, pulling him in by the scarf for a fond, albeit frustrated kiss. “We'll buy the T.E. Lawrence, too, if you like. Dust jacket intact, gold embossing on the cover good as new. It's really something, although you'll never convince me you've actually read the damn thing.”

“I want it so that I _can_ read it, of course,” Sherlock said, content not to pull back so that their lips brushed whenever either of them spoke. “ _The Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ is a must for any Orientalist.”

“Your political incorrectness knows no bounds,” John said. “Come on, let's blow a grand and wait for your brother to ring up and shout my ear off.”

“He'll never believe you're the sensible one ever again,” Sherlock warned, smirking.

“Don't worry,” said John, and kissed him again. “I'm not.”


End file.
